Vengeance 10

Memling found the access door leading into the interior and went down into pitch-blackness. The intense odour of raw concentrated alcohol was overpowering, and by the time he found the emergency drainage system near the base of the liner, adjacent to the fill-pipe junction, he was wobbling. He fumbled the clips holding the access door open, overrode the exterior lock, and swung the door wide, scaring Prager half to death.

Memling opened the emergency drain petcock wide and ducked out quickly as the liquid spurted. With Prager’s help he climbed the slope and crouched behind the retainer wall. The fumes were beginning to clear from his head, and after a few moments he pushed himself up beside Prager. Liquid had already overflowed the hatch sill and was coursing slowly down the slope. As he watched, it gathered in a small hollow, changed direction, and then resumed its course. It took ten minutes before sufficient alcohol reached the abandoned petrol tank to show in the fitful darkness.

‘Do you think there is enough there?’

‘Go ahead,’ Memling said, and Prager took the battered Walther flare pistol from his belt, loaded it, and hesitated.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Damn it, unless you have a better way to do it, go ahead and shoot.’

Prager shrugged, aimed carefully, and fired.

The flare arced in a shallow parabola and burst below the tank. Memling held his breath, but nothing happened. Prager swore, broke the pistol open, and loaded another round. This time he aimed well above the hatch.

Memling had an impression of a tongue of flame spewing upwards from the alcohol-soaked ground, and then all hell broke loose. The tank disappeared with a dull whump, vaporised into a perfectly round ball of flame. The concussion slammed them backwards, and a moment later a gale snatched the breath from their lungs as air rushed in to fill the void where the tank had been. The fireball rolled skyward, so bright that they could not look at it. It seemed to be standing on a single column of flame and smoke, and then bits and pieces of metal whirled out of the night.

‘God damn,’ Memling heard Prager muttering over and over again as they crouched behind the scorched wall. He grabbed his shoulder then and pointed. The base of the old petrol tank was ringed in flame.

‘Let’s get the hell out of here ….’

They vaulted the retainer wall and raced up the slope, running desperately for the shelter of the far side. Memling had tried to memorise the way they had come, but the tangle of piping and jungle of tanks and columns were confusing in the moonlight, and he gave up trying to do anything more than maintain a heading. Prager ran beside him, clutching his side, his breath coming in harsh gasps. The anticipation was exquisite. They had no idea how long, if ever, the intense heat of the flaming alcohol would take to ignite the high explosive.

They could see the fence and the Luftwaffe guard shouting into a telephone when the sudden flare of light warned Jan. He dived for the ground, but the concussion caught him in mid-air and sent him sliding across the gravel surface. He buried his head in his arms as the world ended.

Explosion after explosion rocked the island; pillars of flame arced into the blazing sky. The tank farm had become an inferno of sound and fire. A searing wind raged across the sand waste, and Memling felt it scorch his back even through the wool jacket. He half turned then and stared with awe at the incandescent mushroom of smoke and gas erupting beyond the hilltop. He got to his knees, still staring, awestruck at the destruction they had caused. Nothing remained of the tank farm but twisted steel and flaming buildings. Prager was urging him up, dragging him towards the fence, shouting at him, and suddenly Memling began to shake. That cloud could have hovered over New York, or London. Janet could have been one of its many victims. He vomited, harshly.

* * *

Bethwig showed his pass to the SS guard, pushed through the glass doors, and hurried along the corridor. The few people about glanced at him in surprise, but he ignored them all. When he entered the ready room, a technician completing a pressure check on an oxygen bottle did a double take at finding the chief project engineer here and not at the command centre. Bethwig pointed to the dressing room, and the man could only nod.

Inside, the pilot was putting on the heavy pressure suit. Surprised, he tried to snap to attention and toppled into the arms of a technician.

‘Is everything ready, Artur?’ Bethwig asked the chief technician who was helping to right the pilot.

‘Yes, sir. The suit checks out properly. Everything is set. The command centre reports on schedule for boarding at T-minus-forty.’

‘Very good, gentlemen. Will all of you please leave us for a few minutes? I’ll send Lieutenant Gross out to you in a few moments.’